As the Cosmos family departed and Ling logged back into the World of Pangea, Hao Jun spent the rest of the day preparing for an important dinner. The invitation was both compelling and unsettling—a summons that even a man of his stature could not afford to ignore.

The sender’s identity had left him with no illusions about their power. They had orchestrated the attempt on his life, a move both audacious and chilling. Yet the invitation had been disturbingly clear: they were satisfied he had survived. Refusal wasn’t an option. If he resisted, he knew they would double their efforts and eventually turn their sights on his family next. That thought alone made his decision for him.

He dressed with meticulous precision, his suit striking the perfect balance between elegance and authority. Every detail, from the cufflinks to the tie, was chosen to project an image of belonging without overshadowing those he dared not offend.

This was no ordinary dinner. It was a dinner before an overwhelming uncertainty.

When the time came, he made his way to the private hangar where sleek cosmocraft awaited. Inside its luxurious interior, silence replaced the bustling chaos of Earth as the vessel ascended toward Must-Lagrange Space Station.

The station, a gleaming monument to human ambition, hung in the void of space. Shimmering under sunlight, its angular design was a delicate balance of elegance and complexity. Originally conceived as a functional hub between Earth and the Moon, it had evolved into a haven for the ultra-rich and a center for meetings that never made headlines.

Two humanoid robots stepped forward as Hao Jun’s shuttle docked with a soft thrum. Polished chrome exteriors gleamed under the station’s light, their movements fluid yet precise.

One scanned him with a soft beep before confirming his identity:

[Identity Confirmed: Hao Jun]

[Designation: Guest of PRIORITY PERSON #1]

[Clearance Level: VIP Guest]

“Follow us,” the robot said in a flat, mechanical tone.

Another robot handed him a pair of sleek glasses, which he donned reluctantly. Almost instantly, virtual overlays appeared before his eyes, mapping his surroundings with startling precision. The glasses provided detailed information, from the specifications of the elevator he entered to directions and amenities throughout the station.

[Unit Model: MLX-501]

[Function: Station Escort & Protocol Enforcement]

[AI Tier: Level 3 Autonomous]

[Transport Unit: Hyper-Elevator 7]

[Capabilities: Vertical/Horizontal Transport, Gravitational Realignment]

[Current Route: VIP Corridor 12 - Destination Reached]

Hao Jun tested the glasses’ capabilities further, only to be unnerved by the realization that such innovations had been deliberately withheld from the public.

Within minutes, the elevator doors opened, revealing a pristine, well-lit hallway. The air felt cooler, heavier, as though even the atmosphere demanded respect.

As Hao Jun walked, the weight of the invitation pressed upon him. It had made no effort to hide the Illumina’s culpability in the attempt on his life. If anything, it flaunted it, the message unspoken but clear: they could destroy him at will, but they had chosen not to.

The robots stopped before a set of grand double doors, which slid open soundlessly to reveal a room of understated grandeur. Its centerpiece was an arrangement of eleven tables, each with a single chair, ascending in a pyramid-like hierarchy. At the top sat the highest table, where Victor Rothshield presided.

The unspoken message was clear. Hao Jun’s table, situated on the ground floor, required him to look up to address the others. The symbolism was deliberate—a stark reminder of his place in this gathering.

As he entered, ten individuals turned their gazes toward him. Some were unfamiliar, but others made his breath hitch. Figures he had heard of only in whispers, now gathered in a single room.

At the apex sat Victor Rothshield, his silver hair slicked back, radiating quiet authority. Lucien DePont’s piercing gaze followed Hao Jun, his presence commanding even at a distance. Clara Stonefeller, poised and sharp, occupied the table just below.

The glasses provided dossiers on each individual, their influence stretching across industries and continents.

[NAME: Victor Rothshield]

[POSITION: Head of Rothshield Financial Dynasty]

[Master of Illumina]

[DOMAINS: Banking, International Finance, Resource Control, Virtual Reality]

Each Illumina member was a titan in their domain.

[NAME: Clara Stonefeller]

[POSITION: Executive Chair of Stonefeller Energy & Technologies]

[Illumina Member]

[DOMAINS: Energy, Advanced Technology, Resource Development]

[NAME: Lucien DePont]

[POSITION: Head of DePont Chemical Dynasty]

[Illumina Member]

[DOMAINS: Chemicals, Manufacturing, Technological Advancements]

[NAME: Beatrice Kenworthy]

[...]

[NAME: Charles Wandervault]

[...]

[NAME: Sophia Astoré]

[...]

[NAME: Raj Ambari]

[...]

[NAME: Hiroshi Mitsuru]

[...]

[NAME: Jiho Sun]

[...]

Hao Jun recognized Hiroshi Mitsuru and Jiho Sun from past encounters. Their children had attended the same schools as his, and they had shared polite conversations at elite gatherings. Yet here, they offered no sign of recognition. It was as though they were lifelike representations of the men he knew, hollowed out and replaced by something colder.

The final detail of the profiles sent a chill down his spine: beneath every name, the word “Illumina” gleamed ominously.

To outsiders, the Illumina were a myth, a conspiracy. But to those who crossed into their world, the truth was far more terrifying: the Illumina dictated the future, their influence shaping wars, economies, and revolutions. Every decision in the shadows rippled across the globe.

And now, Hao Jun understood why they had ordered his death. It wasn’t personal; it was protocol. The Illumina didn’t tolerate deviation or disruption, and Hao Jun’s recent moves had apparently crossed a line. His survival wasn’t a testament to luck—it was a deliberate choice, made by those seated above him.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

For the first time, Hao Jun was face-to-face with this unseen force.

Victor Rothshield’s voice broke the silence. “Welcome, Jun Hao. Take a seat.”

The command, devoid of warmth, was unnervingly precise. Even the machines escorting him seemed more human in comparison. Hao Jun suppressed a shiver and approached his assigned table.

Every step was a reminder of his position in this room. The table’s placement ensured he would physically look up to address those seated above, amplifying the stark disparity in power.

Swallowing his pride, Hao Jun sat down, acutely aware of the forces at play. For now, he would listen. In a room like this, defiance was not an option.

Hao Jun sat down, the weight of the room pressing down on him like a physical force. The Illumina members offered no greeting, not even from Victor Rothshield at the highest table. The atmosphere was oppressive, as if the room itself demanded submission.

Hao Jun braced himself, instinctively understanding that speaking out of turn could have catastrophic consequences. Even those seated above him remained motionless, bound by unspoken rules of absolute control.

Hao Jun forced himself to remain composed, his gaze sweeping across the Illumina. Victor Rothshield sat at the apex, his expression unreadable, radiating a cold authority that revealed nothing of his intent. Clara Stonefeller, Lucien DePont, and others at the elevated tables mirrored his stillness, their faces impassive and unnervingly lifeless.

Even Hiroshi Mitsuru and Jiho Sun, men Hao Jun had once known in passing, offered no signs of familiarity. Their presence now felt hollow, as if their humanity had been replaced by something colder.

Finally, after an agonizing wait, Victor Rothshield spoke. “Serve the food.”

The words were devoid of warmth, spoken with a mechanical precision that sent a subtle shiver down Hao Jun’s spine. A whir of machinery broke the stillness as eleven humanoid robots entered, each carrying a polished silver cloche. Their synchronized movements were precise, almost unsettling.

The robots positioned themselves beside each person, standing at attention like extensions of a single mind. But only two moved forward, serving food to Hiroshi Mitsuru and Jiho Sun. The others remained motionless, their cloches untouched.

Hao Jun’s first thought was of a malfunction, but he quickly dismissed it. Nothing in this room was accidental. The rest of the Illumina showed subtle signs of relief—slight shifts in posture, shoulders relaxing by mere millimeters. Only Hiroshi Mitsuru and Jiho Sun betrayed their fear: trembling hands, measured movements, and eyes shadowed with unease. Yet they ate, their silence amplifying the surreal tension.

The untouched cloches stood as cold reminders, reflecting the stark light of the room. As course after course was served exclusively to the two men, the rest of the Illumina remained silent and unmoving, their eyes fixed on the unsettling spectacle. Hao Jun forced himself to remain still, knowing that in this room, even inaction carried consequences.

Time dragged on. Each dish was a masterpiece—gold-leafed blinis with truffled caviar, wagyu beef that melted under the knife, and delicate consommés adorned with edible flowers. Hiroshi Mitsuru and Jiho Sun consumed the luxurious meal with mechanical precision, their fear palpable with every bite.

When the 12-course meal concluded, two additional robots entered, their cloches gleaming. They stopped before Hiroshi Mitsuru and Jiho Sun, and as the lids were lifted, they revealed derringers—small, elegant revolvers, polished to perfection.

Hao Jun’s breath caught. The implication was unmistakable. This was their last meal.

Hiroshi Mitsuru exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping in resignation. Jiho Sun closed his eyes, his lips moving in a near-silent murmur. Both turned to Victor Rothshield, bowing deeply in a final act of submission. Rothshield nodded once, a slow, deliberate motion that sealed their fate.

The two men reached for the revolvers with trembling hands. The air seemed to thicken as they exchanged a final glance, resignation clouding their eyes. Around the room, the other Illumina members avoided looking directly at them, their gazes fixed on empty spaces or their own hands. Clara Stonefeller tightened her grip on the table’s edge while Lucien DePont’s jaw tensed briefly before returning to a mask of impassivity.

Hao Jun watched, frozen, as Hiroshi Mitsuru and Jiho Sun locked eyes in a silent acknowledgment.

Then-

BANG!

Two deafening gunshots shot in near-unison shattered the silence, echoing off the cold walls of the chamber. The sharp sound lingered in the air, refusing to fade, as if the room itself recoiled from the violence.

The room remained deathly still. The blood that now pooled beneath the lifeless bodies of Hiroshi Mitsuru and Jiho Sun was an unspoken reminder of the power wielded in this room, a power that demanded obedience even unto death.

Hao Jun fought to control his breathing, his hands trembling beneath the table. His mind raced, his heart pounding against his ribs as he struggled to process what he had just witnessed.

He thought of his family—his children, his grandchildren. Would they be safe if he failed to walk out of this room?

The same robots that had delivered the weapons moved with eerie efficiency, lifting the bodies and cleaning the scene until no trace of the violence remained. The room, once again pristine, felt even colder.

After the two men ended their own lives and their bodies were swiftly removed, Victor Rothshield addressed the room with cold indifference, his tone dismissive, as though the harrowing event was hardly worth another moment of his attention.

“The first order of business has been concluded,” he declared. "Let us change the scenery."

Before Hao Jun could process what had just unfolded, the walls of the room began to shift, turning transparent. The breathtaking sight of Earth emerged, suspended in the void of space. The planet’s vibrant hues contrasted sharply with the oppressive black of the cosmos, a stark reminder of its fragility.

The symbolism was undeniable. Here, above the world, the Illumina gazed down on Earth as if it were their domain, a sphere of influence to manipulate at will. The transparent floor added to the surreal sensation, making it feel as though they stood directly on the planet.

Victor Rothshield’s voice cut through the awe. “This is better.”

At his command, the robots resumed serving food. This time, all eleven moved in unison, placing cloches before each guest. When Hao Jun opened his, he was met with an unexpected sight: a mini-vending machine offering instant noodles.

His glasses displayed a list of options:

[Sichuan-style spicy broth]

[Classic soy sauce ramen]

[Beef broth with five-spice powder]

[Miso with sesame and garlic]

[Chicken with ginger and scallion]

[Vegetarian mushroom broth]

The absurdity of it struck him. After witnessing two men have their final meal in opulence, he was being asked to choose a noodle flavor. Suppressing his disbelief, he selected the beef broth—a comforting reminder of simpler times.

"Fine dining is indulgent and wasteful," Victor Rothshield declared, his mechanical tone cutting through the air. "Efficiency sustains power, not frivolous excess."

Hao Jun wasn’t sure why Victor Rothshield had suddenly directed this comment at him. Was it a critique? A veiled insult? He couldn’t decipher the meaning behind the words, nor could he determine what, if anything, he was supposed to say in response. His bewilderment lingered, but not for long.

After the machine accepted his selection, Hao Jun noticed the other Illumina members uncovering their cloches.

To his surprise, their meals were equally unpretentious. Lucien DePont was presented with a bowl of fried rice topped with diced chicken and a soft-boiled egg. Clara Stonefeller received a plain tuna sandwich, its crust slightly uneven. One of the other members had a burger and fries, the grease from the bun glistening under the room’s cold light. Even Victor Rothshield himself revealed a modest serving of sauerbraten paired with dumplings, the sauce pooling thinly at the bottom of the plate.

The simplicity of the meals was startling, a stark contrast to the earlier opulence and the gravity of what had just transpired. It was almost absurd—this assembly of the world’s most powerful individuals feasting on dishes more fitting for a casual diner than a gathering of mortal gods.

Steam rose as the cloche revealed a perfectly prepared bowl of noodles. The rich aroma of beef and spices wafted upward, grounding Hao Jun momentarily. He lifted the bowl, took a bite, and found solace in its warmth, even as the room's tension pressed relentlessly on.

For all his control over life and death, Victor Rothshield lacked the grace of a true host. Hao Jun observed as he savored the rich, spiced broth. The meal, absurd in its simplicity, was surprisingly something that Hao Jun needed.